


A Game of Two Halves

by Luka



Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M, Sort of AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: The salary cap row doesn't just break Saracens hearts ...
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Comments: 78
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story (not part of my ongoing series) came to me over the weekend as I was mainlining every scrap of rugby news and saw a story as to where Saracens players might end up. I have played fast and loose with the marquee player status. So yeah, it's an AU! And some of it is set next year!

**January 2021**

“Old ladies love you!” said Jonny, a fraction too loud as always.

“Sod off,” said George, ensuring his voice was at a more respectable level. England meet and greet events tended to be pretty exuberant, but he felt obliged, as captain, to set some standards.

Ben laughed loudly, causing even more heads to turn. George elbowed him in the ribs, and then smiled to order as two women of a certain age requested a selfie with him. He still found the promo stuff difficult, but he thought he was getting better at the small-talk with people - well, as long as they wanted to talk rugby.

As the women moved on to waylay Henry Slade, one of them fixed Jonny with a beady stare. “For your information, sunshine, we’re both 50 and growing old disgracefully. So less of the old and none of the ladies!”

It was George’s turn to laugh loudly as Jonny went scarlet.

***

He was rugby’s new golden boy. He’d been Eddie Jones’s go-to captain when the full force of the Saracens salary cap scandal hit English rugby and the champions’ star players disappeared across the globe in an effort to save their careers. All the media knew he wasn’t the greatest in front of the cameras, but he was honest and thoughtful, and that was what mattered. And he was devoted to England. His first press conference, where he said that the loss of the Saracens players was a massive blow, but that the team would do all they could to restore any lost trust in rugby, had been heartfelt.

Just four months after the agony of the World Cup final, George led England to a Six Nations Grand Slam, shepherding a mix of familiar faces and new boys. A year on, with a young Saracens team in the Championship and its former stars spread far and wide in France, the US, Japan, Australia and New Zealand, England retained their title with George in imperious form. He looked to be a shoo-in for the British Lions.

He was rarely out of the media. His clean-cut, boy next door looks made him a heartthrob. When he was asked about a sweetheart, he just said that he was wedded to rugby and there was plenty of time for him to settle down later. No one knew, not even Jonny and Ben, his closest friends, that it was the most painful question anyone could ask him. England had lost a raft of stars. George had lost the only person he’d ever loved.

And when the RFU PR head honcho came up with the latest charity initiative to polish rugby’s tarnished reputation, George thought his carefully constructed emotional wall would come tumbling down.

***

The RFU had brought in a creative PR agency to help promote the event. The men had hipster beards, the women wore hairbands, and none of them seemed older than about 25. And they were teeth-achingly enthusiastic. They also knew nothing about rugby. 

After ten minutes of what they called blue-sky thinking, George knew it was time to piss on their strawberries. “Um, you do realise that rugby union and rugby league are different sports, don’t you?”

Next to him, Kyle Sinckler, his vice-captain, disguised a laugh as a cough.

“Oh.” The lad who appeared to be nominally in charge deflated rapidly. George thought his name was Rupert. He certainly looked like one. 

“Yeah. If you’re going to make it work and not be totally one-way traffic, it has to be one half under union laws and the other half under league ones. You need two refs, for a start, one for each half. And proper refs. Not some TV celebrity. You’ve got to remember as well that there are no lineouts in league and that scrums aren’t really contested.”

“Has this crossover match format been done on a international level before?” Rupert was eying him with interest.

“Not that I know of. It tends to be a charity gimmick with past players. It’s happened in Gaelic football and Aussie rules football as well, as they’re vaguely similar to each other but not the same. There are no internationals in those sports, though. Have you talked to the rugby league big-wigs about it?”

“They’re interested in principle, but nothing’s been agreed. They seemed to think the England rugby league captain would go for it.”

“I bet he will,” said George evenly.

***

The worst day of his life was when he found out that Owen had gone. They’d been lovers since they were 14. They talked on the phone every day, spent as much time together off the pitch as they could and went on holiday in their down-time. They talked often about coming out, particularly when the Folau shit hit the fan, but hadn’t settled on the best way to do it. They made plans for what they’d do when they retired from playing. Their assumption was that they’d always be together.

***

**January 2020**

“Fucking hell!” Ben shoved his phone under George’s nose.

“What …? Oh fuck.”

“Yeah.”

George scanned the BBC story. Saracens had been offered two choices - open up their books for a forensic audit and give up the trophies they’d won in the past couple of seasons, or be relegated. They’d chosen the latter. And George had a horrible, cold feeling that there was more of this scandal to come.

Once training was over, he sat in his car and tried to phone Owen. They’d talked the previous day as usual and there’d been no sign that more salary cap shit was going to hit the fan. His call went to voicemail. He keyed in a quick text and WhatsApp message, and then went home.

Leicester were playing in France that weekend in the European Challenge Cup. By Wednesday, when he’d still heard nothing from Owen, George drove to Hertfordshire.

The familiar house had a for sale sign outside and was in darkness, with all the blinds down. George rang the bell. There was no reply, apart from an echo in an empty house. He then fished out his door key and pushed it into the lock. It refused to fit or turn.

His legs went from under him and he sat down on the step, hugging his knees. He grabbed his phone and went to the familiar number at the top of his favourites. But there was no connection - just the cold realisation that the number no longer existed. He went to email and tapped in ‘where are you?’ The message bounced straight back - email address unknown. A BBC sport alert popped up on his screen. He had to read it three times before it sank in.

_Top rugby league club Wigan Warriors have dropped a bombshell by signing England rugby union captain Owen Farrell._

_The 28-year-old star, son of Wigan great Andy and nephew of current ace Sean O’Loughlin, will join the side with immediate effect as Saracens seek to offload players in the wake of the salary cap scandal._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both George and England have to adapt to life without Owen and the Saracens players.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this is well into AU territory now - England, winning the Six Nations this year?! This part is all set in 2020 - the first chapter jumped between this January and next January. Expect to be transported to 2021 in the next instalment ... And I've played fast and loose with the fact Owen's a marquee player and therefore outside of the salary cap.

**January 2020**

George wasn’t sure that he was safe to drive. So he stopped at the first services on the motorway and sat in a corner of Costa, trying not to break down. Owen had gone - and cut him out of his life. It was like some sort of nightmare.

He tried to think of any clues, anything that had been said or done, that had pointed to this happening. Aside from the Saracens salary cap shit, there was nothing that came to mind. They’d spent Christmas with their respective families, and then new year together at George’s and everything had seemed perfectly normal. But Owen had to have known then what he was going to do. You didn’t arrange a move to rugby league overnight.

He then remembered a shared email address they had - mainly used to send Owen’s little brother Gabe the corniest jokes they could find. Almost without thinking, he grabbed his phone and began to type.

_Owen, what have you done? Please talk to me. I know you’ve got so much shit flying around, but I want to be there for you. I don’t want you to have to handle it all alone. I love you._

Something made him request a ‘read receipt.’ Within ten minutes, he received one. Had it not been for this, he’d have assumed that his email had disappeared forever into cyberspace. Then, when he tried to log into the account, it didn’t exist any more.

***

Eddie phoned just as George reached home.

“You’ve seen the news?” he asked without preamble.

“Yes.”

“Did you know what he was planning?”

“No.”

“Really?” Eddie sounded sceptical.

“Really,” snapped George. “He doesn’t tell me everything.”

There was a silence, then Eddie said: “George, I want you to be captain for the Six Nations. I know you won’t let us down.”

“Thank you,” said George, not sure what else to say. It should be a dream come true. Instead, it felt like second best.

***

He went for a walk around the village to clear his head. Sod’s Law, lots of people were out walking their dogs and wanted to stop to chat. George did his best to smile and be polite, but he wasn’t sure how many of them could see through the painfully-constructed facade.

He’d left his phone at home on purpose. When he got back, the England WhatsApp group had gone mad. Owen had clearly left the group and none of the Saracens players were joining in the chat and speculation. George desperately didn’t want to say anything, but knew it would look odd if he kept quiet. So in answer to a question from Ellis, he simply said he hadn’t known about Owen’s decision, and was absolutely gutted to see him go, but knew he’d be a huge hit in league. 

It grew dark, but George sat on the sofa with all the lights off. The house was cold, but he couldn’t summon the energy to turn the heating on. And he realised bleakly that there was no one he could talk to. His parents would be on the phone once they heard about the captaincy. It would simply preserve the perfect image of him that they’d chosen to build up. 

The only people Owen and he had ever told had been their families. Owen’s dad had got up and left the room. It was never mentioned again. George’s mother had burst into tears and implored him not to tell his dad. After this, they promised each other that the reactions would make them stronger.

George thought savagely that that had turned out to be empty fucking words.

***

_England rugby union star Owen Farrell revealed today why he’s made the decision to move to rugby league._

_The son of former 13-a-side legend Andy has signed for Wigan, his dad’s old club, in the wake of the Saracens salary cap row. The English and European champions have been fined £5.4m and face relegation to the Championship. They have acknowledged that they cannot meet the salary cap limit this season and are now looking to offload players._

_Farrell, captain of England’s rugby union side and one of Saracen’s top earners, said: “Leaving Saracens is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make as the club has been part of my life for nearly 15 years. But if me leaving frees up money to pay young stars to stay with the club, then the decision will have been worthwhile._

_“The one good thing to come from this whole nightmare is that gives me the chance to fulfil a dream and to play rugby league for my home town of Wigan."_

***

George wasn’t looking forward to the Six Nations launch where captains and coaches were paraded in front of the media in some trendy London venue. There’d be interminable photocalls and interviews, and the only thing the press would want to know about was the Saracens saga, which seemed to get worse by the day. 

Both the men’s and women’s teams were there, and George was rather taken aback when the England captain Sarah Hunter, who he didn’t know very well, greeted him with a rib-crunching hug. He was chatting to Johnny Sexton, who was almost as socially awkward as he was, when Owen’s dad walked past. They exchanged a terse nod, and George realised with a flash of anger that he blamed him for a lot of the shit.

“Did he know?” 

Eddie’s voice in his ear made George jump.

“Did he know what?”

“That Owen was planning to go to league.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him properly for years. He doesn’t rate me.”

“His mistake. Were you and Owen lovers?”

George hesitated, momentarily blindsided by one of Eddie’s non-sequiturs, then shrugged. “Yeah.”

“And he just walked away from you?”

George nodded.

Eddie looked at him with surprising compassion, touched his shoulder briefly, and then started talking about the French squad and the threat they posed.

***

_Victorious England coach Eddie Jones said last night that he’d been right not to select any Saracens players in his winning Six Nations squad._

_England, led by George Ford, sealed the championship with a resounding 42-19 win over Italy in Rome._

_“I know a lot of people thought I was crazy to deprive the national team of so many outstanding players,” said Jones. _

_“But quite understandably their heads were in another place, and neither they nor the England side needed the distraction. The Saracens’ lads first responsibility in this case is to themselves and to ensure they have a team to play for next season so they can challenge for their England places again._

_“The lads who came in to replace them really stepped up to the mark and shows the strength in depth in this country.”_

_And Jones paid tribute to Leicester fly-half Ford and his vice-captain Kyle Sinckler. “Both George and Kyle have been outstanding as players and as leaders.”_

***

George threw himself into promotional work to assuage the loneliness. Making stilted conversation to red-faced, drunken blokes was preferable to his cold and lonely house. He took on countless coaching gigs. The ones with kids reminded him why he loved rugby.

Being out most of the time meant he couldn’t be tempted to watch any Super League matches. Owen had made his Wigan debut almost immediately and had apparently taken the game by storm. For once, rugby league basked in wall-to-wall publicity.

It was like picking a scab, but he couldn’t stay away from the sport, though. So one Sunday, the day after Leicester had beaten Wasps at the Ricoh, George zipped up his hoodie and pulled a beanie on. He wasn’t recognised a lot even in rugby union territory, and the chances of being recognised in deepest Yorkshire were low. But he desperately didn’t want anyone to spot him in the crowd at Wakefield Trinity’s home match against Wigan. 

Every time Owen touched the ball it was like a stake through George’s heart. Several times he had to look away. Wigan had tried him in a number of positions, including a loose forward like his dad had been, but that day he was at stand-off where he dominated the game. 

For probably the first time ever, George left a match at half-time. He sat in a coffee shop in Wakefield town centre and felt utterly despondent. One of his openly stated aims was to move to league at some stage. But now he felt trapped in union as there was no way he could bear to play against Owen.

***

The five-week break stretched ahead of him, empty and lonely. He’d had some amazing holidays in the past both with Owen and other England team-mates, but he couldn’t even face a golfing break with Jonny. George couldn’t think of an excuse, though, when his brother Joe phoned up and told him, not asked him, that he was going to Spain for ten days with him, Connie, their little lad Kobe, and their youngest brother Jacob.

The villa was roomy, cool and comfortable, but George was bored within three days. He hated being out in the sun and he was a lousy swimmer. He’d brought some rugby books to read, but even they didn’t keep his attention. The brothers had played golf a few times and they’d wandered around the nearby town and checked out the coffee shops. But it felt like he was counting down the days till the flight home.

It was early evening on the fourth night and Connie was putting Kobe to bed. The brothers sat on the edge of the pool, dangling their feet in the water. The air smelled warm and sweet, and George remembered with a flash of almost unbearable pain a holiday he and Owen had spent in Spain the previous year, further down the coast. Suddenly he was aware that Joe was talking to him.

“G, what’s going on? You look terrible.”

“I’m fine, mate.”

“You’re not. You’re obviously hating every moment of this holiday. And you haven’t been up home for ages, and mum and dad are wondering why not.”

George stayed silent. There was nothing he could say.

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone away with Owen or Jonny or any of the other England lads.”

George shrugged, kicking at the water.

“How’s Owen getting on?”

“No idea.”

“Haven’t you heard from him?”

“Nope. He dumped me.” It was out before he realised what he’d said.

There was a brief silence and George could see both his brothers knew exactly what he meant.

“Bloody hell, G, you and Owen are …?” Joe was staring at him.

“Were.”

“How long?”

“Since I was 14. We didn’t do anything till I was legal, before you ask.”

“Who knows?”

“Owen told his parents that he’s gay and his dad wouldn’t even discuss it. Mum cried a lot and told me not to tell dad … Otherwise, no one.”

“Hell, G, why didn’t you talk to me and Jacob?” Joe looked really upset.

George shrugged again.

“It’s OK to ask for help. You don’t have to do everything yourself. You carry both England and Leicester on your shoulders as it is.”

“I’m fine.” He felt himself starting to withdraw, both emotionally and physically.

It was Jacob, 21 going on 40, who slid his arm around George’s waist, pulling him close. George allowed himself momentarily to lean into the embrace. This all felt so odd. He was the in-control one as a rule.

“Joe’s right, G. Talk to us any time you need to. I hate the fact you’ve been struggling alone for so long.”

“I’m fine,” he said again.

“You’re not. We can see you’re not. A relationship ending after 12 years is bound to hit you hard, particularly when you had to keep it hidden. Did he say why he was ending it?”

“He hasn’t said anything. First I knew was when he stopped replying to my messages. When I went down there, the house was up for sale and the locks had been changed. He’d also changed his mobile number and shut down his email.”

“Oh Jesus …”

“We’d planned our lives after rugby. And we’d talked about getting hitched.” George’s voice wobbled. Shit, he couldn’t break down, not even in front of his brothers. 

And this time Jacob’s arms were tight around him. He cried silently for several minutes, his face hidden against his little brother’s shoulder. Then he sat up and pulled away, mortified that he’d broken down. “Sorry …”

Jacob gently cupped George’s face in his hands. “Don’t be.”

“Crying’s self-indulgent …”

“Bollocks. Just remember that Joe and I have got your back every time.”

George didn’t trust his voice. Instead, he nodded and touched Jacob’s arm. He wasn't sure he trusted anyone any more, not even his brothers.

***

The email from the RFU media people arrived almost the moment the plane touched down in England.

_Hey George, hope you’re enjoying your break. Give us a bell when you can as we’ve got an idea for an awesome fundraiser - the England rugby union side against their league counterparts. We want to pick your brain about it. We hope it’ll be the publicity the game needs after all the salary cap shit._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea for the England union v league match comes to fruition and George has seriously mixed feelings about the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in 2021 - starting in January and finishing at Easter. You all know it's fiction, of course! And here's a warning for much swearing ...

**January 2021**

“I dunno …” Kyle scratched his shaved head and stared out of the window. “I can see why they want to do it, but it’s got the potential to backfire. We’ll look like amateurs in one half, and the league lads will be over-run in the other once the scrums and lineouts kick in. I mean, you’re the only one to have played league, and Owen and Luther are the only ones to have played union. It’s fair enough doing it at a lower level for a bit of fun and some fundraising, but I really dunno about two national sides … I can see it turning into all-out war as well. You know, northern tough guys wanting to put one over the southern softies. And …” He hesitated.

“And …?”

“I’m not sure what sort of reception Owen will get either. A lot of people thought he bailed out when the going got tough and that he obviously had something to hide.”

George nodded. Kyle had a point and he knew that some of the England players agreed, even if they’d never said anything to George’s face. He’d got good at diverting the conversation if Owen’s name came up - and it did far less often these days.

The explosive prop was turning into an inspired choice for vice-captain. He and George had grown very close as they were both sports nerds. And George thought sardonically that they didn’t half do wonders for busting union stereotypes - one of them with a very strong Lancashire accent, hardly the accent of union, and the other a black lad from a London council estate. Kyle was as loud and talkative as George was reserved. But they’d built up a good double act in front of the media and on the pitch.

“George, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” George wondered briefly why Kyle was looking so serious.

“Were you and Owen lovers?”

George hesitated, then nodded.

“Until …?”

“He left for league.”

“What happened?”

“He suddenly stopped replying to my messages, so I went to his house. There was a ‘for sale’ sign up and the locks had been changed. And he’d changed his mobile number and shut down his email account. The first I knew about the Wigan move was from the BBC site.” Even after a year the pain was so raw that his voice was unsteady.

Kyle, true to form, didn’t offer vague platitudes. Instead, he touched George’s arm slightly awkwardly. “How long had you been together?”

“Since I was 14 and we were at school together.”

“Did he give you a reason?” Kyle was regarding him seriously.

George shook his head. “No. And I’ve had no contact with him since. He never replied to any of my messages or emails.”

“Fuck him for walking away from you like that …”

“Thanks.” It felt strangely easy to confide in Kyle. “Look, does anyone else know about me and Owen? How did you guess?”

Kyle half-smiled. “I dunno. It was just a hunch. And if anyone else has guessed, they haven’t said anything in my hearing. And you know how much the nosy fuckers gossip. Who else had you told?”

“Owen told his parents and his dad walked out of the room. My mum bawled her eyes out and told me not to tell me dad. That was it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Rugby league dinosaurs …”

“Is there anyone now …?”

George shook his head and Kyle seemed to sense that it was a no-go area. 

“Right, shall we put together some thoughts for the PR lot?”

George nodded gratefully, glad of the distraction, and reached for his iPad.

***

Eddie frowned, scanning through the notes George and Kyle had made. “I think you’re right, lads. It’s all for a good cause and everything, but I’m not risking anyone with a hint of an injury. And if a player doesn’t want to play, it won’t be held against him.”

George nodded. That seemed like a good compromise. It would be crazy to risk Ant and Henry, for a start, as both had had injury worries during the autumn internationals and were looking iffy for the Six Nations.

“And that includes you, George.” Eddie was regarding him beadily.

“Thanks, Eddie, but I want to play.” In reality he was split - he desperately wanted to play his boyhood sport, but the thought of coming up against Owen was almost unbearable.

“Fair enough. Now, I’ve got some league mates who’ll come in and do some training sessions for us. Sean Long says he’ll help out as well. I assume you’d rather we didn’t ask your dad, George.”

George had long ago given up on marvelling at Eddie’s mind-reading skills. “I’d rather we didn’t.”

“OK. Now, why don’t you talk to Chris Ashton, Denny Solomona and Kyle Eastmond and see if they’d like to be involved. If we’re going to do this, we need to do our homework and get the strongest teams in place for both halves.”

***

“Bloody hell!” Tom Curry’s eyes were on stalks. Twickenham full was a hell of an atmosphere, but 90,000 at Wembley on a Good Friday was something else altogether. The match was also going out live on BBC1. The gimmick – which was what it was – had really captured the imagination of the media, particularly with Owen and George coming up against each other.

Some of the England players looked pretty stunned as the size of the occasion struck them. The training had been lively, but with an underlying feeling from some of the team that the match was going to be entertainment fodder for charity. George had tried to stress how committed the league lads would be, but he hadn’t been entirely sure people were listening. He could usually handle his nerves well, but was more on edge than he’d ever been.

As they warmed up on the pitch, the noise was almost overwhelming. And George had to turn away from the sight of Owen practising his place-kicking. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths. This was just another match …

***

“Bloody hell!” Tom flopped down on the bench and closed his eyes. “Is it always played at that pace?”

“Yep, welcome to league,” chorused Ashy, Denny, Kyle and George with impeccable timing. 

They’d kept the score to 14-6 to the league lads at half-time. But the union forward strength told in the second half and they won 27-20. It was exhilarating and George realised how much he missed league - he’d scored a first half try when he’d darted through a gap in the defence. The union lads were babbling excitedly about the experience, and George suspected there would be some league offers forthcoming. He’d sign Manu, Sinks and Jack like a shot, for a start.

***

The after-match meal was at some posh London hotel. It sounded like the match was going to raise almost £1m for a raft of charities. George pasted on a smile and prepared to schmooze with the sponsors. 

After the drinks reception, everyone was ushered through into the dining room. And George was horrified to find that the seats were allocated and that he was next to Owen. He looked around wildly, wondering if he could change places with someone. 

“Hello George.”

“Owen.”

“You’re looking for somewhere else to sit.” It was a statement, not a question.

And George couldn’t be arsed to lie. “Yes. I don’t have anything to say to you and people are gonna notice if we sit in silence all night.”

“And people are also gonna notice if we don’t sit next to each other and at least make an effort to talk.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me!” snarled George and was childishly pleased to see the shock on Owen’s face.

“I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …”

George took a deep breath and sat down, mentally composing himself. He prided himself on his cool. He could get through this …

He managed to string together a fairly coherent brief speech, thanking everyone for their support. But he barely touched his meal and could see the woman to his right, who was chief executive of one of the charities, eying him worriedly. Women of a certain age always wanted to feed him up and make a fuss of him. George dredged up a smile and started chatting to her about the work of the mental health charity. It turned out that she was from Manchester and knew one of his cousins.

On the other side of him Owen was talking to a bloke who looked like a retired army officer. The bloke could clearly bore for England, but as far as George was concerned he could blather all night if it meant he and Owen didn’t have to make conversation. He turned back to Denise, the woman from the charity, who asked him about his fitness routine and what it had felt like to play in a World Cup final.

***

Back at the hotel both teams took over the bar. The forwards had all bonded and were swapping war stories. The exuberant Luther Burrell was making sure the backs from both sides mixed as well.

At about midnight George had had enough. He did his usual rounds saying goodnight to all his team - it had become a standing joke, but he knew they liked it and it had become a tradition after a match. Joe Marler always claimed he couldn’t sleep if he hadn’t had his bedtime hug from George!

As he stood waiting for the lift, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He’d played his heart out, sure, but he’d also survived seeing Owen again, and that couldn’t be underestimated. And no one had asked any difficult questions.

“George … Please. Can we talk?”

Owen’s voice behind him made him jump.

“No.”

“Please, George.”

“I’m not interested, Owen. I don’t want to hear weak excuses.”

“You need to know. You deserve an explanation.”

“What good will it do? It’ll just open up old wounds.”

The lift arrived and George got in, pressing the button for the third floor. Owen got in beside him.

“Please, George. I want you to know why I behaved like I did.”

“You’ve got ten minutes and then that’s it.”

“Thank you.”

When the lift stopped, George went to turn left, but Owen took hold of his arm and pulled him to the right. They went through a set of fire doors and Owen unlocked a room at the end of the corridor. It was unmistakably his, with his belongings strewn everywhere. They were barely through the door when they started pulling each other’s clothes off. And then they were on the bed, Owen on top of George and kissing him hungrily. The sex was quick and raw, and George knew he’d have the bruises the next day.

In the dark, Owen began to talk, his voice low and rough, stumbling over his words. 

“I think about you every day. Every fucking day. And I’m so ashamed, knowing what I did to you and how much I hurt you. I’ll never forgive myself for that and I know you hate me and I don’t blame you. I miss you so fucking much. I know you won’t believe me, but I love you. Still love you. Always will. But I couldn’t let you …” His voice trailed off.

George tested his voice cautiously. “Couldn’t let me what?”

“End up as collateral in all the shit.”

"What d’you mean?” 

“The salary cap shit for a start. And the Mail were going to out me and were determined to find out who my partner was … The cunts were doorstepping me and phoning my agent for almost a fucking month.”

"What? How did they find out?”

“There were rumours doing the rounds at Sarries and someone dobbed me in. It was another reason for leaving. If I couldn’t trust my own team-mates, I wasn’t fucking staying. They didn’t know about you, though, and I had to make sure there was nothing for them to find. If they couldn’t find anything, they’d have to back off and there’d be no story. I just kept stonewalling them. And in the end me going to league made a better story.”

“We could have talked about it … Coming out wouldn’t have been the end of the world. We could have stood together so all the pressure wouldn’t have been on you.”

“We needed to be able to control it and do it at our pace, Georgie, not have our hand forced by the fucking Mail. And they’d have fucking made sure the story was seedy and sordid … They’d have claimed we did it when you were underage, for a start.”

George went cold. They’d kissed and cuddled from the age of about 14, but hadn’t had sex till George had turned 16. Not that the fucking tabloids would believe that. The thought of the papers telling lies about their sex life made him feel sick.

“I dunno … Maybe it would have been different if all the salary cap shit wasn’t going on as well. And that’s why I had to let you go, Georgie. You’d have been tainted with guilt by association. No one would believe that you didn’t know what was going on.”

“I would have stood by you. I know you did nothing wrong. Why didn’t you give me that chance? I’d never have left you. Never.” His voice wobbled dangerously.

Owen looked away and didn’t answer. And George was tired, so fucking tired. He needed his fucking head examined letting Owen get to him again. He went to stand up and find his clothes, but Owen pulled him back surprisingly gently.

“Don’t go … Stay with me tonight.”

And George found himself curling up on the bed again. And when he woke, still half-clothed, at 6am, Owen’s hand was clamped around his wrist hard enough to leave bruises.

“Please … Before you go, let me kiss you one last time …”

George nodded and closed his eyes as Owen cupped his face in his large hands and gently kissed him.

“George, I know I’ve got no right to ask … Is there someone else? Someone who loves you?”

George shook his head. “The only thing I have in my life now is rugby … What about you?”

“There’s no one else … There never will be …” Owen’s voice was flat and matter-of-fact.

“Owen, we need to move on … You’ll find someone else …”

“I’ll never settle for second-best. I had you … I had everything I wanted. And I threw it away. I did wrong for the right reasons. I wanted to protect you. Please believe that.”

George’s head was spinning. This was opening up so many old wounds. He needed space and he needed fresh air and a chance to think …

“I know I don’t deserve it, but if there’s any way we can be friends again …”

Inside George, a tiny beacon of hope stirred. His head was telling him to walk away from the person who’d rejected him and hurt him so badly. His heart was shouting loudly that Owen still loved him and cared about him. 

“You don’t have to tell me now. Think about it. We can take it steady, meet up when we can and stuff and see what happens.”

George nodded dumbly and they sat in silence, their fingers touching. Outside the room, doors banged and they could hear voices - their teammates going downstairs for breakfast. George knew he needed to shower, to find clean clothes. But he didn’t want to lose this moment, something he’d thought had gone for ever.

“When are you back training?”

Owen’s voice made George jump. 

“Tuesday. What about you?”

“Same.”

That was three days away. George heard himself saying haltingly: “If you want to, come to mine for a day or two …”

Owen’s face broke into that rare, wide smile that he’d always saved for George. “Are you sure?”

George nodded. He wasn’t, but he knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try.

“Thank you. Can I take you out for dinner tonight?”

“I’d like that. Thank you.”

It all seemed so formal. But it was a start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the dual code match George and Owen spend the weekend together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this is miles and miles into AU territory now! It takes place at Easter 2021 for a start. And you all know it's fiction and the product of my over-fertile imagination ...!

**Easter 2021**

George felt like something out of a TV comedy, darting down the corridor from Owen’s room to his own looking thoroughly dissolute and wearing the previous night’s clothes. He managed to make it without being spotted, although he had to cower behind the fire door when he heard the distinctive tones of Jonny and Chris Ashton by the lift.

He was glad of a single room for once as he stripped off his by now very crumpled suit and got into the shower, closing his eyes as the hot water rained down on his aching body. As he turned the shower off and reached for a towel, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The bruises from Owen’s fingers were dotting his body. And fuck, was that a love bite on his collarbone? 

George pulled on a clean teeshirt and shorts, and zipped his tracksuit top up to his chin to hide the love bite. The England team took an excessive interest in each other's love lives and there was no way he could pass it off as a bruise from the match. The piss-taking would be of Oscar-winning proportions, given they all believed George led a monastic existence – which he usually did – and that about the only people in the hotel were two rugby sides …

When he walked into the dining room, he realised he was virtually the last down for breakfast, which was enough to guarantee a raft of comments, as he was always one of the first. 

“Nice of you to join us, skip!” Joe Marler’s voice could, as usual, have been heard three counties away. “Oversleep, did you?”

“Did you forget the time when you were on that premium rate phoneline?” 

“Was that the fourth or fifth time you’d watched yesterday’s match?”

“Were you practising your kicking in the car park?”

George rolled his eyes and gave them the finger. He filled his plate from the buffet and joined Jonny, Luther and a couple of the league lads. Owen was in the far corner of the room surrounded by his team. It was telling that most of the union players had avoided him both the previous night and in the morning beyond a brief greeting.

It was 11am before George was able to check out. He’d spent 20 minutes dealing with an increasingly unsettled Jonny, who didn’t cope well with changed plans, and concocting a story as to why he couldn’t give him the promised lift back to Leicestershire. In the end Manu had overheard the conversation and said he’d take Jonny home. George had thrown him a thankful look, knowing very well that the big centre wouldn’t ask inquisitive questions and that he’d soon have Jonny chatting.

Owen was leaning against George’s car in the underground car park, scrolling through his phone.

“Is your number still the same?”

George nodded.

Owen’s fingers skimmed over his phone and a beep heralded the arrival of a text message.

“Text me back,” said Owen.

George obeyed, listening for the beep and then tapping Owen’s name into his contacts list.

“You’re still OK about me …?”

George nodded again, unlocking his car and slinging his bags into the boot.

“Thanks. See you at the other end.”

***

George used the drive north to try to get his jumbled thoughts in order. He still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing by letting Owen back into his life. Last night had been both overwhelming and intense. Maybe this weekend was a chance to see what his true feelings were.

An hour and 50 minutes later, George pulled onto his drive and turned the engine off. Three minutes later, Owen did the same. He closed his eyes for a moment, counted to ten and then went to unlock the front door. He had an ominous feeling that it was going to be a challenging few days.

***

By the time they got to the Italian restaurant just before 8pm, George estimated that they’d exchanged a couple of dozen sentences - almost all about the match, which they’d watched and made copious notes about, despite the fact it was a supposedly one-off event. They’d drunk so much coffee that George was wired. Several times he’d been on the point of saying that the whole thing was a mistake and they should just go their separate ways. The only thing that had stopped him was the wide, genuine smile that Owen had given him every time their eyes met.

As they waited for their meal to arrive, George felt like a museum exhibit as Owen’s gaze was fixed unwaveringly on him. 

Owen said softly: “Thank you for giving me this chance.” 

George nodded and their fingers touched briefly as they reached for their glasses.

***

Just before midnight, they stood on the landing, looking at each other awkwardly.

“I’ll sleep in the spare room,” said Owen, fingers twisting around his rucksack straps.

“You don’t have to …” 

“Let’s take it steady, yeah?”

George nodded, allowing Owen to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. But when he woke just before 7am, Owen was fast asleep next to him on top of the duvet, his arm reaching out towards George.

Owen opened his eyes suddenly and reached out and gently touched George’s cheek, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming. And that one simple gesture allowed George a sliver of hope.

“Hey! You must be freezing. Come on, get under the duvet …”

Owen obeyed, and pulled George into his arms. And then large hands were tracing their way across his body and he closed his eyes and spread his legs as the hands explored lower and rolled him onto his back …

***

They spent about an hour doing their post-match recovery session, then adjourned for a roast lunch at the village pub. Conversation was almost non-existent, and mostly Owen just stared at George, as if mapping every centimetre of him.

“You’ll know me next time you see me,” said George, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much … Every fucking minute of every fucking day …”

George swallowed hard. “I’ve missed you too …”

***

“So what do you want to do this afternoon? Go for a run? Go for a walk? See what sport there is on TV?” George unlocked the front door and they went through into the living room.

Owen shrugged, and the look in his eyes told George that he had other things on his mind. And then George found himself on the sofa with his legs locked around Owen’s waist and his arms around his neck. Predatory lips nipped and kissed his throat and across his collarbone. Shit, he was going to end up covered with more love bites - it was like Owen was marking his territory. 

***

George flexed his aching body experimentally and caught Owen’s eye. They both burst out laughing. It was Easter Monday early afternoon and they’d only just got up. And they hadn’t got an awful lot of sleep the night before …

“Pasta do you for lunch?”

Owen nodded and handed George a top-up of coffee. “Got to keep our strength up!”

“I don’t think we’ve had any problems with keeping anything up!”

Owen waggled his eyebrows and for a moment it felt like old times again.

George set Owen peeling onions and chopping peppers while he measured out the pasta and got the tomato sauce going. 

“Have you heard from any of the Sarries gang?” George tipped the eccentrically-chopped vegetables into the pan.

He'd had a couple of messages from Jamie and Elliot, both of whom were in France. Maro was in France as well, apparently living the high life in Paris with Racing 92. George Kruis had gone to Japan and Billy and Mako to Super Rugby in New Zealand.

Owen’s face darkened and he shook his head. “I’ve got nothing to say to any of them any more. Someone betrayed my trust for a start and set the fucking Mail on me. And I’m pretty sure some of them knew more about the finance shit than they let on. I know as well loads of people think I was in on all the shit above. I wasn’t, truly. A clean break was all I could do.”

And George realised that the behaviour had been typically Owen - impetuous, hot-headed, but trying to do the right thing, although often doing it badly.

“Do you regret it?” asked George bluntly.

“Depends how you mean. I’ll regret forever what I did to you. That was unforgivable. As for my career, it’s worked out OK. They’re good lads at Wigan and it’s a sound set-up.”

It was typical Owen understatement. Wigan were Super League champions, he was already England captain and was tipped to lead GB on next year’s New Zealand tour.

“Otherwise there’s nothing else in my life.” He said this without self-pity.

“What about your mum and dad?”

“What about them?” said Owen flatly.

“Do you see them?”

“I went home at Christmas but that was really just to see Gabe. I barely spoke to my dad and my mum just made loads of pointed comments that really pissed me off.”

George grimaced and touched Owen’s hand. And then Owen’s arms were tight around him, kissing him fiercely and then pushing him against the worktop and pulling down his shorts …

***

For probably the first time ever, George was apprehensive about training on Tuesday. He didn’t know how he was going to hide the marks on his body - the usual war wounds after Friday’s match, but also a mass of bruises from Owen’s fingers, plus three love bites.

After the session he waited till everyone else had gone, pretending to check stuff on his iPad and phone. He came out of the shower to find Greg Bateman sitting on one of the benches.

“You forgotten something, mate?” asked George, hurriedly grabbing a tee-shirt.

“No.” Greg’s eyes were fixed on George. “I’m worried about you. You’re acting weirdly and you’ve got bruises all over you that aren’t from a match or training. You look like a kid off an NSPCC poster. What’s going on, George?”

George started to say that he was fine, but he could see immediately that Greg wasn’t going to let this one go.

“You know the Dancing Horse pub?”

George nodded. It was in one of the villages and at one point he’d gone there a fair bit with Jonny, Greg, Ben and Tom until it changed hands and the new landlord hadn’t appreciated Jonny’s verdict on the food.

“Get dressed and we’ll go and have some lunch there. It’s changed hands again so it’s safe to go back. You can tell me what’s going on.”

***

Greg, as usual, got straight to the point. “I don’t want to pry, George, but I’m worried about you and so are the lads. Those bruises aren’t just from Friday’s match or from training. There’s no easy way for me to ask this, but is someone knocking you around?”

George shook his head, knowing he’d gone scarlet. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with a teammate. He cursed his pale skin which went lobster-red at the first sign of sun, and which also showed every bump and bruise in vivid technicolour.

“Is it consensual?”

George nodded, his face burning.

“OK, that puts my mind at rest a bit. We all worry about you, as you’re so focused on your rugby to the exclusion of your private life. But if you do want to talk … The lads were there when I needed them.”

Greg had had serious mental health issues and had been in some fairly dark places over the past couple of years, particularly when his wife had left him and taken the kids. George knew he’d been touched by how much his teammates had rallied round to support him.

“Um …” said George.

There was silence.

“Is it a new boyfriend who’s a bit over-exuberant?”

George was momentarily lost for words. “How did you guess?”

“That you’re gay?”

George nodded.

“Don’t forget those match-making dinner parties when Sophie and Charlotte were parading us in front of the eligible women of the county. It was obvious you weren’t the slightest bit interested in girls.”

“Shit, was it that obvious?”

“I think I was the only one who noticed. You were terribly polite but looked like you wanted to run a mile.”

George managed a smile at this. He’d got good at dodging match-making attempts after some excruciating evenings. Jonny’s wife insisted on introducing him to faintly terrifying fitness freak Amazons who towered over him, while Ben’s missus seemed to know a stream of pretty little things who were even more tongue-tied than him.

“Who else knows that you’re gay?”

“Eddie Jones and Kyle Sinckler. And my brothers.”

“No one here?”

“No.”

“Is your bloke a rugby player?”

George nodded dumbly.

“At Leicester?”

“No.”

There was silence and George said, almost without thinking: “It’s Owen … Owen Farrell.”

Greg nodded, but George hadn’t missed the flicker of amazement on his face. “How long have you been together?”

“Since I was 14. We split up when he went to league …”

“But you got back together after the dual code match?”

George nodded.

“I hope it works out. You deserve someone to make you happy …”

“Thanks,” said George, not sure what else to say. As for it working out, he wasn’t holding his breath. And he wasn’t even certain he wanted it to. He didn't want a fuck buddy – he wanted his best friend back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen and George slowly rebuild their relationship. And George wonders whether it's the end of the line for him in union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, there's angst, but there's also some light at the end of the tunnel, honest! The chapter is set in the first half of 2021, so yes, AU territory ... A warning, as always, for much swearing and my over-fertile imagination!

**April - August 2021**

_Hey George! Another day, another league offer! Current queue stands at St Helens, Castleford, Leeds and Toronto Wolfpack. Let me know what you want me to tell them … St Helens and TW offering serious dosh._

George scanned the email from his agent. He’d suspected there would be a load of rugby league clubs trying to tempt union players following the dual code match - although he wasn’t expecting four to wave their chequebooks at him. And St Helens was his boyhood club …

His money was on Manu going to league - he’d already said he didn’t have another World Cup in him. And George had heard on the grapevine that several clubs wanted the hard as nails Mark Wilson, who would thrive in league.

George closed the email and rubbed his eyes. He had no idea what he wanted to do. The only thing to do was go to the gym …

***

It was like being wooed by a stranger. They FaceTimed daily and met up up every couple of weeks, but they’d lost the closeness and easy silences that had epitomised their relationship since they were kids. The sex, though, was electric. But that could never make up for the emotional chasm between them. Several times George was on the point of telling Owen that it wasn’t going to work and that a clean break would be kinder for them both. But every time he went to say something, he chickened out.

“You want to come up for a few days?” Owen was in bed, reclining on a pile of pillows, headphones around his neck. His hair was damp and spiky from the shower.

“Thanks. They’re resting me for the London Irish match.”

“Good. We’re home to St Helens. And you know what’ll happen if you turn up in your Saints shirt!”

George burst out laughing. He’d never been allowed to forget the day in Hertfordshire when he’d turned up to the Farrell house wearing his favourite team’s shirt - and was promptly banished by Owen’s dad!

Owen laughed as well, his eyes crinkling in the way that George had always loved. “See you Friday, then.”

***

“So you and Owen are back together again?”

George did a double-take at Owen’s uncle Sean, who’d delivered the totally unexpected line in his matter-of-fact Wigan accent. He hesitated, then nodded.

“Good. He hated himself for the way he treated you.” Sean, who was being rested for the game, broke off to bawl instructions at his team.

“I didn’t realise you knew …”

“When he moved up here he was behaving like an arsehole and I challenged him on it. Then he told me the whole story … I’d wondered for a while, mind.”

“You don’t seem shocked.”

“No reason why I should be.”

“What’s his mum and dad’s problem?”

Sean shrugged. “I dunno. I got told to back the fuck off when I asked his dad. Do your parents know?”

“My mum does. She cried her eyes out and begged me not to tell my dad. He’s homophobic so it wouldn’t end well. Every time Gareth Thomas or Nigel Owens get mentioned, he just rants.”

“No one’s fucking business but yours and Owen’s,” said Sean briskly as the final hooter sounded and the Wigan crowd roared their approval for a 16-12 win.

George sighed quietly. Owen would be unbearable all weekend.

***

Owen’s house was a new build in a village near Wigan. It was nice enough but utterly soulless - just like George’s, in fact. It was somewhere to eat and sleep and not much else.

“I didn’t realise Sean knew about us,” said George, as they walked down to the pub for Sunday lunch.

“Yeah. He ripped a strip off me when he found out what I’d done. And he got a thick ear from me dad for giving them grief for their attitude.”

“He said …”

They were sitting in the pub garden waiting for their food when George said: “You know Eddie guessed about us?”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

“I dunno. He asked me straight out at last year’s Six Nations launch after your dad had virtually blanked me. Sinks guessed as well.”

“Might explain why he was giving me arsy glances the other week and standing in between you and me like something was gonna kick off. Not many of the union lads wanted to be seen talking to me. And I know why, that they think I bailed out when things got tough and that I knew all about the financial shit.”

George kept quiet. That pretty much summed up a lot of the lads’ views. To begin with they hadn’t said as much in George’s hearing, but once they’d realised he wasn’t in contact with Owen any more, they’d got more unguarded. It had made him realise how much resentment there was against Saracens among the other Premiership clubs.

“It’s OK, you don’t have to say anything. They’d have fucking kneecapped me if they’d have known how I treated you …”

The arrival of the food filled a potentially uncomfortable silence. And once they’d eaten, pretty much all they had to talk about was the previous day’s match.

***

George read slowly through the Lions squad for South Africa. His name wasn’t there. He wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t make the devastation any easier to deal with. He knew Gatland had never rated him, but also knew he couldn’t have done anything more. Clearly his World Cup performances, plus leading England to two Grand Slams, wasn’t good enough. Gatland had picked Johnny Sexton, Finn Russell and - for fuck’s sake - Marcus Smith, who hadn’t even played for England yet. And he might have guessed that Alun Wyn Jones would be captain. Jesus, he’d still be playing when he was 118 …

George’s phone rang. It was Owen, and he was raging.

“Gats needs his fucking head examined. Johnny’s past it. And Finn’ll be pissed half the fucking time. And as for that cocky little Quins shit … He can’t tackle his fucking way out of a paper bag! He’ll be zero fucking use with a load of hairy-arsed Saffers targeting him.”

“I knew he wouldn’t pick me. And next time I’ll be 32. I think it’s a hint that it’s time to move to league.” George had had to deny the rumours that he was about to move to league after the Wigan local paper had spotted him at the St Helens match. Maybe it was time to rethink.

“Not yet, Georgie. Fuck the Lions and focus on the World Cup. You know bloody well that Eddie rates you.”

The rest of that day and all of the next was a stream of players either phoning or messaging George, and of bland media interviews where he parroted how disappointed he was, but that he had England and Leicester to focus on. The players who’d made themselves unavailable, such as Joe Marler, were outspoken in their condemnation of George’s omission. Clive Woodward had weighed in as well, making his views on George’s perceived shortcomings abundantly clear. 

_Angry England rugby players have slammed British Lions coach Warren Gatland for snubbing captain and fly-half George Ford._

_“Blinkered idiots like Gatland and Clive Woodward can’t see how much George has done for the England team,” said Marler. “He’s the best captain in world rugby and controls a game better than anyone. His tactical and place-kicking are both immaculate. I’m not sure what else the lad has to do to be selected.”_

***

Owen sounded uncharacteristically tentative on the phone. “I’ve got to have that shoulder op at the end of June, and they’re giving me July to recuperate. Will you come on holiday with me?”

“Where were you thinking of going?” George’s first thought was that Owen was suggesting it to take his mind off the Lions saga.

“Where do you fancy? I assume you don’t want beaches and somewhere baking hot?”

“No thanks,” said George. He didn’t do heat, and beaches bored him spitless. “And I dunno …” He was tired and knew his confidence had taken a knock with the Lions snub. And he wasn’t entirely sure three weeks away with Owen was a good idea. They were more relaxed with each other but still a long way from how they’d been before.

“OK, let me have a look online.”

***

George looked around the hotel room. Bloody hell, it was a bit posh. It was in a French village, set in beautiful grounds, a couple of kilometres from one of south west France’s many medieval towns. It was the kind of place, though, where the staff didn’t bat an eyelid at two blokes sharing a room.

The room was amazing, with a separate lounge, massive bathroom, and views over the nearby river. And the bed was huge.

“Bloody hell, we’ll get lost in that!” said George.

Owen waggled his eyebrows. “We can explore it any time you like!”

They sat on the edge of the bed and kissed, Owen’s hands stroking across every centimetre of George’s body. And this time it was relaxed and gentle, and George fell asleep, Owen’s arms tight around him, with the warm smell of mown grass drifting in through the open window.

***

It wasn’t the sort of holiday he would usually have chosen, but within days he’d fallen in love with the area. The coffee shops overlooking bustling street markets in small towns might have been made for them. They happily whiled away several hours watching the world go by. There were riverside walks and George’s unexpected favourites – caves with prehistoric art on the walls. He could see Owen wasn’t so fussed by them, but he seemed content to do anything that made George happy.

And George barely thought of the Lions tour that was going on at the same time. It was the first time in his life that he hadn’t obsessively sought out results and coverage of matches. And he wondered dispassionately if this meant it was time for him to leave union.

***

“What d’you want to do today?”

George didn’t have to think for too long. It was their last full day there, and it was Saturday market day in the nearest big town. He wanted coffee, croissants, people-watching and the easy companionship that he and Owen were slowly regaining through three relaxed weeks close to each other.

They pushed through the slow-moving crowds to their favourite coffee shop and Owen went inside to order the food and drink.

A copy of the previous day’s Daily Mail had been abandoned at the adjoining table by a loud English family. George pulled it over and went to turn to the sports pages. But he had to look twice at the front page story. And then a cold feeling engulfed his body.

_England rugby stars’ gay secret_

_Rugby stars George Ford and Owen Farrell are secret lovers, the Mail can reveal._

The photos said it all. He and Owen had been photographed in the hotel grounds holding hands, sitting with their arms around each other, and then kissing. George knew immediately when the photos had been taken – Tuesday evening before dinner. He and Owen had just got back from a hilltop village and were soaking up the last traces of that day’s warmth. They’d been in a hidden corner of the gardens and were so relaxed that it just hadn’t occurred to them that anyone might be watching them. 

Owen came back and pulled a chair out. He took one look at George and said: “What?”

George pushed the paper towards him. 

“Fuck them! Really, really fuck them!” snarled Owen.

***

George wasn’t a bit surprised to find the media waiting for them when they landed at Birmingham airport. Owen was all for walking straight past, but George shook his head.

“If we don’t say something, they’ll doorstep us.”

Owen shrugged and George knew he had to deal with it, as Owen was immediately into his default ‘fuck the media’ setting which would just make a fraught situation even worse.

The whole fucking circus spilled out of the arrivals terminal as the airport security attempted to move the media on. Outside, with bemused taxi drivers and holiday-makers staring at them, George said: “This isn’t the way we’d have chosen to come out, but we’re not ashamed of being gay. We’re consenting adults and our private lives are no one’s business but ours. To whoever flogged the photos to the papers, I hope you feel good about it.”

They ignored the questions thrown at them and Owen barged them a path through to the multi-storey carpark where George had left his car. They threw their bags into the back and George reversed out quickly, taking a juvenile pleasure at a couple of photographers having to dive out of the way.

He drove back to Leicestershire one-handed, praying the police wouldn’t pull them over, as his fingers were entwined with Owen’s. Back at the house they showered and threw their washing into the washing machine. Owen, who had barely spoken since the airport, made them coffee.

George went to check his voicemail - and found that his phone had been turned off since they’d left France. It went berserk with texts and voicemails when he turned it back on. The first message was from his dad, his voice hissed and low.

“I hope you’re proud of yourselves after that sordid display in the papers. You’re both absolutely disgusting flaunting your perverted relationship to the world. We didn’t bring you up to behave like this.”

Owen’s arms were around him in an instant, holding him up and holding him close.

“Fuck him. We’ve got each other. We can do this. Hang on …”

He pulled out his key fob and swiftly detached an empty ring from it. And George knew that it was the ring his own house key used to hang from.

Owen pushed the cold metal onto George’s finger. “Georgie. Marry me? Just like we talked about before. Please.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George has to deal with a host of reactions to him and Owen being outed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you there was light at the end of the angsty tunnel! (Can you have an angsty tunnel? You know what I mean ...) As usual, here are warnings for swearing and my over-active imagination. And you all know it's fiction! There's just one more chapter to go after this one.

**August - September 2021**

_“And now we go over to Sky sports correspondent James Tanner at Welford Road in Leicester, where England rugby captain George Ford has been speaking to the media.”_

_“Thanks, Sally, Yes, the England rugby union captain has just revealed that he and his rugby league opposite number Owen Farrell are getting married in December. They were outed by a national newspaper last week while on holiday together in France, and Ford said this wasn’t the first time that that particular publication had tried to out his partner. He’s made it abundantly clear that neither he nor Farrell are ashamed of being gay and that they’d talked in the past about the best way to come out. They’ve known each other since they were teenagers, although they split for just over a year when Farrell moved to rugby league and have only fairly recently got back together again. This is what he said …”_

_“Now we’re out, we can prove that sexuality is irrelevant in top-level rugby. And we intend to speak out against bigots like Israel Folau and Billy Vunipola. Rugby is an inclusive sport, and we can add our voices to the likes of Nigel Owens, Gareth Thomas and Keegan Hirst. All three of those are awesome role models and Owen and I hope we can be the same …" _

“You didn’t half pick your bloody time,” said Bondi, the Tigers’ social media bloke, ruefully, switching the TV off.

“What d’you mean?” George was immediately wary.

“You can guarantee that a story like this will go nuclear over the summer as there’s no other news to report with everyone on holiday …”

“We didn’t choose the fucking time,” snapped George. He was already royally pissed off after being grilled by the media about his private life for almost half an hour. The whole thing had been a total fucking circus, starting with the Daily Mail reporter being refused entry to the press conference, and culminating in Geordan, who’d insisted on sitting in, calling a halt to proceedings after a reporter from The Sun seemed focused on getting George to admit that he and Owen had had underage sex. George had been about a centimetre from losing his cool in front of the cameras.

“I know you didn’t, mate. Sorry …”

“Yeah, OK.” 

The door slammed back against the wall and Jonny marched in. “George! We’re going for coffee. Now.” 

George knew that it would be pointless to say no. So he followed him out, nodding periodically as Jonny blathered about some documentary on global warming that he’d been watching.

“Why are you wearing a key ring on your finger?”

Jonny’s non-sequitur broke into George’s thoughts. He instinctively looked down at his finger. He knew it was crazy, but he hadn’t taken the key ring off, apart from for training when he’d carefully put it in his shoe, since Owen had pushed it onto his finger.

“Um …” George knew he’d gone scarlet.

“I sincerely hope he’s going to buy you a proper ring,” said Jonny severely. “Right, get in. I’ll drive.”

And George, who steadfastly refused to get into a car when Jonny was behind the wheel, didn’t argue.

***

“But why on earth didn’t you tell us before? We wouldn’t have been in the least shocked!” 

Ben was surprisingly agitated about the whole saga. Jonny, meanwhile, was supremely unconcerned and happily discussing conspiracy theories with Greg.

George shrugged and reached for his cup of coffee. Typical Ben, upset about not being in the know for once. He was glad that Greg hadn’t told the others about their conversation.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I mean, we’ve known you for years …”

“Lenny, stop hassling the lad!” snapped Tom.

“I’m sorry, George. I don’t mean to hassle. I just want you to know that we’re OK about it all.”

“Yeah, thanks, mate.” George’s head was starting to ache. He wanted to go home and to FaceTime Owen.

“You know you can talk to us any time you want to …”

George nodded and managed a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He wasn’t surprised, though, when Tom turned up on his doorstep late afternoon. George had been sifting through his emails and phone messages. Every member of the England squad, without exception, had messaged or phoned him, as had countless Premiership players, a lot of whom he didn’t know very well. 

And true to form, Joe Marler and James Haskell had piled in when Billy Vunipola had made snide comments on his Instagram account under a photo of Owen and George taken after the World Cup semi-final against New Zealand. George thought that it was a good job the bigoted cunt was at the other end of the world.

Tom, as usual, looked like he was about to put in a shift on the farm. George invited him in and they sat in the kitchen with cups of coffee. He knew that Tom took his club captain responsibilities very seriously and would see it as his duty to keep an eye on George.

“I just wanted to check that you were OK and to apologise for Lenny earlier …”

“Don’t worry. It was Lenny being Lenny. And I’m fine, thanks.”

“How’s Owen doing?”

“He’s fine as well. Wigan have said that their game next month against Catalan Dragons will be a fund-raiser for a local gay and lesbian support group.”

“That’ll please Folau!”

George smiled slightly and passed Tom a refill of coffee. “He can fuck right off.”

“Any problems with anyone at Tigers, tell me and I’ll deal with it. Although I hope there won’t be.”

“Thanks. Everyone’s been fine so far.” That included the Pacific Islands contingent, all of whom were religious. And George had been rather surprised when Manu, a staunch church-goer, had given him a rib-cracking hug.

There was silence, then Tom said: “How have your parents reacted?”

“Badly. Me dad left a really nasty voicemail. It’s just confirmed that I don’t have anything in common with them any more. They’d built up this image of me as the perfect son, and now I’ve let them down in their eyes.”

“Fuck them!”

“Yeah. At least I’m not living a lie any more.”

“What about your brothers?”

“They’ve known for a while about me and Owen. But I dunno … It’s like me and Jacob have just grown apart from the family. Joe’s moved back to Lancashire, but it’s like we’re well out of it.” 

“Good. The important thing is that you and Owen are happy.”

“Yeah. Thanks, mate.”

“And if you ever need to talk …”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

And they exchanged a rough hug as Tom got up to go.

***

The fractional hesitation said it all. And Joe couldn’t meet George’s eyes. “G, thanks for asking … But I …”

“Don’t want to upset mum and dad.” George fought to keep his voice expressionless. He’d really wanted both his brothers to be his best men. So yeah, all that stuff about them having his back was bollocks.

Joe was silent. George looked up and caught Jacob’s eye. His little brother said quietly: “G, I’ll be really honoured to be your best man.”

“Don’t do it if you feel uncomfortable.” George made sure he didn’t look at Joe. 

“I want to do it,” said Jacob firmly. “I want to be beside you on your big day.”

“Thanks, mate. I really appreciate that.”

***

George saw the anger in Owen’s eyes when he FaceTimed him later and told him what had happened. 

“Fuck him. And good on your Jacob.”

“Yeah. He’s the best. Who are you gonna ask?”

“Already asked Sean,” said Owen briefly.

“Will he do it?” George knew it would be an awkward situation for Owen’s uncle.

“Yep. He won’t have any crap if me mam kicks off at him. Although I think most of the shit’s coming from me dad.”

Jacob phoned just as George was packing his kitbag for training. George’s first thought was that he was going to back out of best man duties.

“You OK, mate?”

“I’m fine, G. I’ve just got home. And no, I’m not phoning to say I’ve changed my mind about being your best man. I want to do it and I’m going to.”

“Thanks,” said George, feeling guilty that he’d doubted his little brother. “But look, if you’re gonna get crap off mum and dad for doing it …”

“Don’t care. I’m immune to her crying and doing the guilt trip thing now. And you know what he’s like, making it all about him and how they shouldn’t have let you spend all that time with Owen when you were in your teens and that you just need to meet a nice girl who’ll show you the error of your ways.”

“Fuck them. The sad thing is, I don’t miss them.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been back to his parents’ house. His mum texted him several times a week. He always replied, but they were brief, non-committal responses.

“Not sad, just sensible. I’m very glad to be five hours away from them. Joe needs his head examined for moving back up there.” Jacob was in East Anglia and clearly wasn’t regretting the move.

“I know.”

There was a brief silence, then Jacob said: “What have you said to Joe?”

George hesitated and shrugged, then realised his brother couldn’t see him. “I messaged him and said if he felt more comfortable staying away then that’s what he should do.”

“Has he replied?”

“No. I’m expecting him to phone up later and start mithering over it. To be honest, if he’s got the slightest doubt, I don’t want him there. It’s taken a lot for me and Owen to get to this stage and I only want people there who are happy for us.”

The irony of the whole thing wasn’t lost on George. Growing up, he’d been the well-behaved, perfect offspring, while Joe had pushed boundaries. Now it had been reversed.

***

When his phone went, he glanced at the display and grimaced. It was Connie, his sister-in-law.

“Hey, Connie.”

“Hi G. You OK?”

“Fine, thanks.” George decided he’d let Connie make the running.

“Has Joe phoned you?”

“No.”

There was a sigh from the other end of the phone. “He went out for a walk two hours ago and said he was going to phone you … I’m sorry, George. I’d cheerfully wring his neck.”

“If he doesn’t feel able to come, I’d rather he just said outright.”

“I know. He just seems hung up on the fact that even though your parents are behaving appallingly about it that he doesn’t want to fall out with them because he thinks Kobe should have contact with his grandparents.”

“Whatever.” George was tired of all the shit.

“I know,” said Connie again. “We got the whole bloody performance on Sunday …”

“Me dad doing the perverts routine and that we’re setting an appalling example to youngsters, and me mum crying and going on about how she obviously molly-coddled me when I was little and both of them saying that I just need to meet a nice girl.”

“Yep. They never saw a stereotype they didn’t like. And why do they hate Owen so much?”

“They thought he was a bad influence when we were at school. And they’re convinced he corrupted me when we shared a room on age group tours. Me dad always resented Owen keeping me out of the England starting line-up. And he can’t stand Owen’s dad. Bloody rugby league tribalism.”

George heard a door bang and his brother’s voice calling out to Connie. And suddenly he just wanted Joe to be honest with him. “Connie, put him on.”

“OK.”

There were muffled voices, then Joe said: “G, I’m sorry …”

“So all that stuff in Spain about having my back was just bollocks, then.”

“No! You know you can always talk to me.”

“Yeah? Why would I want to do that when you think it’s OK to let mum and dad get away with homophobic shit? You want Kobe to grow up hearing that sort of crap?”

“Of course not!”

“So you call them on it?”

There was silence and George snapped: “What the fuck’s wrong with you, Joe? Why are you letting them get away with this shit? Do you agree with them?”

“Of course I don’t! It’s just, I dunno, mum would be devastated if she couldn’t see Kobe. I’m sorry … I want you to be happy …”

“Yeah, whatever …”

Suddenly Connie’s voice barked out: “For fuck’s sake, Joe, you need to grow a pair!” She took the phone back and said: “George, your brother can do what the fuck he likes. Please may I still come to the wedding?”

“Yes, of course …” He’d never heard her swear so much. “Ben and Charlotte and Jonny and Sophie are invited, so there’ll be people there you know.”

Joe was imploring her not to start a family row. Connie’s response was short and to the point: “You and your dad have already done that.”

***

The last person George expected to see outside the changing rooms after the first game of the season was his dad, even though he’d heard on the grapevine that he was working with the Sale Sharks backs.

George’s dad had never been a shouter. In some ways, though, the cold contempt was more wounding.

“Your mother’s devastated by the fact you’ve cut us out of your life. We don’t understand what we’ve done to deserve it after all we’ve done for you.”

“Really?” George kept his voice level. His dad’s selective memory had clearly chosen to ignore the vicious voicemail he’d left.

“We don’t know what’s come over you. And as for this sordid charade you and Owen insist on going through …”

“What d’you mean?” George knew very well, but he was going to make the bastard say it.

“This pretend marriage you’re planning.”

“It’s not a fucking pretend marriage,” flared George, all thoughts of restraint pushed aside in a rush of anger. “It’s legal and it’s two people in love committing to each other. That’s what you and mum did, and there’s no difference.”

“Never, ever compare your perverted relationship to the love your mother and I have!”

“And you wonder why I don’t want anything to do with you any more …”

“The example you and Owen are setting to youngsters is absolutely disgusting.”

“Fuck you!”

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“George is within his rights to say what he’s said to you,” Geordan’s voice behind them was unmistakable.

“Keep out of this, Geordan,” snapped George’s dad.

“No. I won’t have one of my players abused like this. You get out of the ground now or I’ll call security. And I should report you to both Sale and the RFU for what you’ve just said.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

“Is there a problem, Mr Murphy?” Nathan was head of security at Welford Road. He was 6ft 7”, weighed in at about 19 stone and played American football in his spare time.

“This gentleman’s just leaving, Nathan. Perhaps you’d see him to the Sale coach.” 

Geordan took George into his cramped office under the stand, swept a load of training bibs off a chair, and made him a strong cup of coffee. He sat quietly while George drank it, only texting Tom to tell him where they were.

“What was that all that about?” asked Geordan gently. He’d been an integral part of George’s rugby life. He’d been at Tigers when George had came up through the academy and then into the firsts at the age of 16.

George nodded. “How much did you hear?”

“Most of it.”

“In that case, there’s not much to tell.”

“Your parents disapprove and won’t be at the wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your brothers?”

“Joe’s not coming. He claims he wants me to be happy, but it’s more important to him that Kobe doesn’t lose touch with his grandparents. Jacob’s going to be my best man.”

“Good lad.”

George nodded. “Connie’s coming.”

“Good girl.”

“We haven’t sent the invites out yet. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Geordan’s response was immediate.

***

He might have bloody guessed that Joe would phone.

“You OK, G?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Good. Look, I’ve just had dad on the phone.”

“Yeah?” That was hardly a surprise.

“He said you yelled and swore at him.”

“Yeah. That’s what happens when someone tells you you’re taking part in a sordid charade, that you’re in a perverted relationship, that it’s a pretend marriage and that it’s setting a disgusting example to kids. And in case you think I’m exaggerating, Geordan overheard the whole thing and threw him out of the ground.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone. George sighed. “Goodbye, Joe.” Then he terminated the call and blocked his brother’s number.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George makes a life-changing decision as the wedding day approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a fairly short epilogue, but it sort of growed and growed. Well, I did promise a happy ending! There's the usual warning for bad language, and a reminder that this is all fiction and that I have an over-fertile imagination! Thank you to everyone who's stuck with the saga. Oh, and if you haven't seen the epic punch-up in a Good Friday Wigan v St Helens match (with Owen's dad at the centre of it!) go and look on YouTube ...

**October - December 2021**

“You realise you’ll be me sworn enemy for ever more now!”

“Yep!” said George, propping himself up on his side and tracing his fingers across Owen’s chest and down his flat stomach.

“And every Good Friday we’ll have an epic fucking punch-up!” Owen shivered as George’s fingers explored lower.

“Yep!” He couldn’t suppress a moan as Owen retaliated, his lips ranging across George’s face and throat.

“I can’t fucking wait! We’re going to be fucking awesome in the England and Great Britain teams together …”

Owen knelt over George and nudged his thighs open. And George’s brain turned to mush before he could point out that he hadn’t even stepped onto a rugby league pitch yet and might turn out to be a very expensive mistake.

***

He’d agonised over the decision, but in the end the clincher was the opportunity for a new challenge and to be able to make a new life with Owen – even if they were playing for sworn rivals. Of course he’d harboured a dream of leading England to victory in the next World Cup. But two years seemed like a lifetime. 

And if he was honest with himself, he’d fallen out of love with the sport a little after the Lions snub. He’d felt faintly guilty when he couldn’t summon much sympathy after the Lions had been whitewashed 3-0 by South Africa. Johnny Sexton had looked over the hill and had kicked like a drain, Finn Russell had crashed and burned spectacularly and didn’t even appear for the second half of the tour, and Marcus Smith was way out of his depth. George’s fan club, in the shape of the likes of Joe Marler and James Haskell, had taken great delight in pointing out in the media the glaring gap at 10.

George also couldn’t face another year of Leicester struggling. It wasn’t the same club he’d grown up with. And he missed Jonny, who’d gone back to Gloucester for the new season. It felt like George had done all he could at Tigers.

He told Sinks first. They’d taken to WhatsApping a couple of times a week for a catch-up. 

“Hey Fordy, everything OK?”

“I’m fine, mate. What about you?”

“Yeah, all good. Gonna have a beer and watch Match of the Day in a bit.” Sinks was a huge sports nerd and the person everyone wanted on their quiz team.

“Nice one …”

“Good result for your lads on Friday night …”

“Yeah.” Leicester had beaten London Irish 26-12 at Welford Road. “You all set for tomorrow?”

Sinks nodded. It would be the second time he’d come up against his old club Quins since moving to Bristol. “Yeah. Raring to go.”

They talked about the game for a while, then moved on to the autumn internationals that were due to start in a fortnight. The one topic exercising everyone’s minds was still that of scrum-half. Eddie was resolutely sticking with Ben and Willi Heinz. George had wondered if he’d give one of the young pretenders, such as Jack Maunder or Alex Mitchell, a go. But the two 30-somethings were still in strong form and at the top of the pecking order.

Sinks said suddenly: “Are you OK, Fordy? You seem a bit preoccupied. Everything OK with you and Owen?" 

“Mate, I need to tell you something … I’m going to rugby league.”

Sinks was silent for a minute or so, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on George. Then he nodded. “I’m not surprised. St Helens?”

“Yeah.”

“When was this decided?”

“Only the end of last week.”

“Have you told Eddie yet?”

“No. I was gonna tell him in a fortnight when we all meet up.”

“Do Leicester know yet?”

“No. I need to tell them on Monday, as St Helens want me from January 1.”

“Are they likely to stand in your way?”

“I dunno. Probably not, given how much dosh they’ll save if I go early. They let Sam Harrison leave at Christmas when he moved to Oz.”

“True, but he wasn’t England captain. We’ll miss you like hell, mate. But I can’t pretend I’m surprised. Stay in touch, yeah?”

“Of course. I’m gonna miss you, mate.” And George, who didn’t have a wide circle of friends, realised he meant it. “Hope you can make it to the wedding.”

“You bet! I’m not gonna miss seeing you lads get hitched!”

***

“It looks amazing!” George scanned the hotel website.

“Shall we book it? I’m surprised they’ve still got space over Christmas.”

George nodded and Owen booked a double room for a week. The hotel was in the highlands of Scotland and looked pretty posh. They hadn’t really thought about a honeymoon, given the rugby timetable and given December wasn’t exactly going away weather unless you could ski, which they couldn’t, or liked somewhere exotic and hot, which they didn’t.

The wedding was planned for Sunday December 19. At the last count, the guest list stood at 175 - almost all rugby players from both codes. Owen had quietly insisted that they sent invites to family members. None had replied, except the one to George’s parents that had come back with ‘return to sender’ scrawled over it in his dad’s distinctive handwriting. Owen hadn’t said anything, but had ripped it into tiny pieces and thrown it onto the fire.

They’d booked Leigh Sports Village for the wedding. George, an inveterate organiser, had realised early on how much had needed to be booked. So when Connie had offered to help, they’d been very relieved and accepted with alacrity. At least they now knew that the guests would all have something to eat and that a registrar would be there to conduct the wedding.

“Joe says to say hi.” Connie FaceTimed him early afternoon just after he’d got back from training.

“Is he OK?”

“Yeah, he’s fine, although I kneecapped him last night for doing the drama queen act over the family rift. When I asked whose fault that was, he shut up quickly.”

George kept quiet. He missed Joe, but he just didn’t want to have to deal with all the self-pitying shit. Maybe they’d be able to rebuild their relationship at some stage. But George knew it would take time.

“We’re all sorted on the food. I know not everyone will turn up, but to be on the safe side I’ve asked the caterers to make enough for 200. After all, it’ll mainly be rugby players with gargantuan appetites!”

George laughed. “Thanks, Con. You’re a total star.”

“No problem. I’ve booked a covers band that Sean recommended for the disco, and a mate of mine who’s a florist in Manchester says she’ll do flowers for the tables in Wigan, St Helens and Leicester colours.”

“I never thought about flowers!”

“Which is why I can help out. And I’m enjoying it. I think I fancy a new career as a wedding planner!”

***

“I can’t change your mind, then, not even if I mention the World Cup?” Eddie regarded him levelly.

George shook his head. “I’ve thought it through, and it’s been a difficult decision to make. But now’s the time to move while I’m still young enough to adapt to a new sport.”

“And yours and Owen’s seasons will be in sync.”

“That too. And I need a new start.”

“I blame bloody Gats,” said Eddie sharply. “When will you tell the England squad?”

“Not until the autumn internationals.” England were playing Australia, Japan and New Zealand.

“So you won’t be available for the Six Nations?”

George shook his head. “St Helens want me for the start of the new Super League season, and Leicester have agreed to release me from January 1.”

“That’ll be the salary cap speaking …”

“Yeah …” Geordan hadn’t been overjoyed about the request, but had obviously done the sums.

Eddie hugged him. “We’ll miss you, George. You’ve given your all to English rugby.”

“Thanks,” said George, embarrassed. “It’s been an amazing experience and I want to go out on a high.”

***

They’d beaten Japan 42-21 in the opening match of the autumn internationals, and then kept their 100 per cent record against Australia under Eddie with a 30-12 win. The after-match meal had been an exuberant affair. The England squad were back in the team room at Pennyhill Park playing snooker or just chatting when George made his announcement. For a moment there was absolute silence, followed by a loud stamping of feet. Joe Marler, who was sitting next to George, enveloped him in a bearhug, sending their pints flying. 

“You kept that bloody quiet, you little sod! Who’s going to give me a good-night hug after a match now?”

Jonny, clearly rattled by the news, said: “But George, what about the World Cup?”

There were loud sounds of agreement, and it took George a moment or so to crystallise his thoughts. “I dunno … Maybe that’s why I delayed the decision so long. But two years seems a long way off, and anything could happen in that time. It just feels like I need a new start and a fresh challenge.”

“And there’s a sexy bloke waiting for you oop norf!” said Ben, waggling his eyebrows.

“That too,” said George, hoping he wasn’t blushing.

This was met with wolf-whistles and smutty comments, so George said quickly: “I’m gonna miss you all like hell. Thank you for making my time as England captain so incredible. I’m never gonna forget everything we’ve achieved together.”

The cheers and applause went on for several minutes. Once it had quietened down, Joe said: “We’ll go out on a high for you, skip, and smash those Kiwi fuckers out of sight again …”

***

_And now it’s over to BBC sports correspondent Chris Jones, who has news of a bombshell from England’s rugby union captain George Ford …_

_“That’s right. Ford, who this afternoon captained England to a 21-15 win over New Zealand at Twickenham in the last of the autumn internationals, has announced that this will be his final – and 82nd – appearance for his country. He’ll be joining rugby league giants St Helens from January 1. He won the man-of-the-match today for his performance and then told the BBC about his shock decision which will see him come up against his fiancé Owen Farrell, who plays for old rivals Wigan. Ford’s club side Leicester have agreed to release him early from his contract, which was due to end in the summer. It’s certainly a bombshell, as he’s led England to two consecutive Grand Slams and was expected to be Eddie Jones’s shoo-in choice as captain for the World Cup in France in 2023. But the 28-year-old says he is looking forward to a new challenge while he’s still young enough to adapt to a new sport, albeit one he played while he was growing up in Lancashire before he moved to the 15-man game.”_

***

The night before the wedding, they held hands in bed, just talking softly in between the comfortable silences that had been the hallmark of their relationship since the start. There were so many random memories to share, starting with that first meeting as youngsters on a rugby league pitch in Lancashire.

As dawn came, they lay sprawled out on their backs, hands entwined, watching the winter sun shining through the curtains.

***

On the morning of the wedding George’s mother sent him a text message.

_I think of you all the time and I want you to be happy. _

He stared at it for some minutes, weighing up what to do. Then he typed in ‘thank you’ and pressed send.

“OK?” Owen wandered over and slipped his arm around George’s waist. He was just out of the shower and smelled good enough to eat.

George nodded and showed Owen the message.

Owen held out his own phone. There was a text message from his mother containing a single love heart.

***

George felt unaccountably nervous. It was crazy, really, given the high-pressure matches he’d played in. But this was something he’d never thought would really happen. And 175 people would be there, watching their every move. That was a more nerve-wracking thought than playing in front of 80,000 people.

Jacob touched his arm briefly. “Deep breaths, G. Think of it like a penalty kick!”

George smiled and nodded. It was just the sort of advice you’d expect from a rugby coach.

Suddenly they heard raised voices, and Owen’s sisters hurtled into the room in a flurry of blonde hair, pretty dresses and perfume. Owen’s face split into the widest of smiles and he hugged them both. He seemed lost for words. The girls hugged George as well.

“OMG, you both look so handsome!”

“We thought we were going to be late. We got lost coming off the M6!”

“You’re here and that’s all that matters.” Owen had his arms around both of them.

“You didn’t think we were going to miss it, did you?”

“Sean made sure we knew what was going on.”

“Oh wow, look at all the people here!”

“Oooh, is that your little brother, George? He’s cute!”

“Last time we saw him, he was knee-high to a grasshopper! Are your parents and your big brother here?”

George shook his head and the girls hugged him again.

“They can sod off. You and Owen have got each other now and that’s all that matters.”

***

George tried to imprint every second of the day on his memory. The ceremony itself was fairly short, but he would never forget the blinding smile on Owen’s face as they made their vows and then exchanged rings. And there were whoops, shouts and wolf-whistles when they kissed, both of them such intensely private people and embarrassed at such a public display of affection, wedding or no wedding …

He’d been a bit nervous at the thought of the reception, with so many people there. But it became a stream of funny and scurrilous stories told by teammates, with Joe Marler acting as the unofficial MoC. The important men in their rugby lives – Eddie, Geordan, and their England age group coach John Fletcher – all made speeches. Fletch, an exuberant Geordie, was an instant hit as he regaled everyone with stories about George, 15 going on 55, and 16-year-old Owen ruling the England under 18s like they’d been born to it. Which they had.

***

George locked the front door for the final time. He should have felt some emotion at leaving the house where he’d lived for the past four years. In reality, he felt nothing. He just wanted to be away from Leicestershire.

“All clear?” Owen held out his hand for the keys.

George nodded and dropped the keys into Owen’s palm. The removal van had left for Lancashire 20 minutes ago. All they had to do now was take the keys to the estate agent. Then he could begin his new life.


End file.
